Jan Karon's Mitford Years

by Jan Karon

  “This is his treasure, Father.”

  In the dark, cool interior of the woodworking shop, Clarence reverently lifted the lid of the burnished mahogany chest, and revealed the contents of early handmade tools.The vicar caught his breath.

  “W-wow,” said Sammy.

  “Ditto!” said Cynthia.

  Clarence signed to them as Agnes spoke the interpretation.

  “When Mama and I lived in Chicago, I went to a school for the deaf. I took a woodworking class and that’s when I knew I wanted to work wood for the rest of my life.”

  Father Tim noted the unmistakable joy on the face of his crucifer.

  “A really old man used to come and teach us special skills, like hand-carving a bowl instead of turning it on a lathe. He was ninety-four, and had this tool chest which he would bring to the shop for the students to look at. We couldn’t touch any of the tools. But I really wanted to.”

  Clarence removed a tool from the chest and handed it to Sammy. He handed another to Cynthia and one to Father Tim.

  “The man’s name was George Monk, and the chest had come down in his family of woodworkers from Sheffield, England. Somehow Mr. Monk thought I was pretty good at woodworking, and one day after everybody had left the shop, he let me take all the tools from the box and handle them. He talked about how they were used, and told me he thought I was ...”

  Clarence dropped his eyes to the chest, awkward.

  “Gifted!” Agnes explained. “He said Clarence was gifted.”

  His face flushed, Clarence signed again. “Mr. Monk didn’t have any children,” Agnes interpreted, “and when he died, the lawyer came over with the chest. I was eleven years old, it was the most important thing that ever happened to me.”

  Clarence appeared moved by this memory.

  “Mr. Monk said it was better than any tool chest he’d seen in museums,” explained Agnes. “We were deeply touched by his gesture of love and trust. Clarence says you’re holding a gouge, Father. Cynthia, that is a socket chisel ... do you see the maker’s mark, John Green, just there? Sammy, that’s a brad awl.”

  Clarence signed to Sammy.

  “It was used to bore pilot holes for nails. The handle is mahogany, the ferrule is beech. The handle feels really nice in the hand; it was probably used by four different woodworkers before Mr. Monk inherited it.”

  Sammy pointed. “W-what’s ’at?”

  Agnes’s fingers flew as she signed both questions and answers.

  “A homemade brace or bitstock, it’s for drilling holes.”

  “Do you use all ’is s-stuff when you work?”

  “I used a lot of these tools on the pulpit, and on Mama’s walking stick.”

  Father Tim was struck by the experience of Clarence’s woodworking shop; it was like nothing he’d never seen. Every tool hung in its place with others of its kind, including an assortment of bench planes, braces, hollows, and rounds; wooden shelves held bread trays and dough bowls of buckeye and poplar. A broom stood propped against a caned chair on a swept pine floor. In the corner, afternoon light slanted onto a mysterious wooden contraption with a grave and solemn dignity.

  Agnes leaned on her cane. “And over there is some of the lovely work inspired by Mr. Monk’s influence.”

  They turned to the rear wall where walking canes with carved handles hung in rows. Beneath the canes, a menagerie of carved animals was crowded onto a trestle table.

  The vicar picked up a black bear and held it in a shaft of light. He turned it this way and that, entranced. In truth, he’d never seen a bear—until now.

  “Clarence has made a gift for each of you,” said Agnes.

  Clarence began handing the gifts around.

  “For you, Father, a Gee-haw Whimmy Diddle. The Cherokee used it as a lie detector; Clarence will show you how to work it. For you, Cynthia, a Flipper Dinger, one tries to get the ball in the basket—and for you, Sammy, a Limber Jack who’ll dance on his board ’til the cows come home.We hope these old mountain toys will be a great lot of fun.”

  Cynthia was beaming. “I’m having fun just hearing the names!”

  As he left the churchyard, Father Tim took Agnes’s hand, his heart infused with a kind of joy he hadn’t known in years.

  “You and Rooter teaching sign language, the pair of us teaching the prayer book ... why, we’ll be a regular university up here!”

  “‘And now in age I bud again,’” she said, quoting their mutually well-favored poet.

  “‘I once more smell the dew and rain!’” he responded. “By the way, what was thirty-eight across? Baloney was the clue, as I recall.”

  “Utter nonsense!”

  “That would be a good clue for what the church is sometimes known to advocate.”

  Agnes’s ironic smile couldn’t be suppressed. “Surely you don’t dwell on that bitter subject.”

  “Certainly not!” he said, grinning.

  “Shall we take Sissie her Magic Markers and Violet books?” asked Cynthia as they clambered into the truck.

  He looked at Sammy, who was wedged between Cynthia and the passenger door. “Will your seeds sprout without you, buddy?”

  “Yeah. N-no problem.”

  Soon, he’d have to do with Sammy what he’d done with Dooley: begin the long and arduous trial of changing yeah into yes, sir and yes, ma’am and no into no, sir and no, ma’am. Such instruction had led to a battle royal with Dooley Barlowe, but for all the pain and aggravation on both their parts, the seed had sprouted and come to flower. Truth was, he should have discussed this with Sammy at the beginning ...

  “Consider it done!” he told his wife, turning left instead of right off the church lane.

  “Did you talk Sparkle out of her grandmother’s recipe?”

  “Right here,” he said, patting his jacket pocket. He would never put oatmeal in meat loaf again. No, indeed. Life was way too short.

  Sissie answered the door in a T-shirt, pajama bottoms, and her yellow shoes. Her eyes were reddened and puffy.

  “Mama’s sleepin’,” she said. “Granny’s here t’ make ‘er eat, but she won’t eat nothin’.”

  “You remember Cynthia.” His wife didn’t like formal titles; she was Cynthia to one and all.

  “Hey,” said Sissie, looking miserable.

  “Hey, yourself. I brought you the books I promised.” She handed Sissie copies of Violet Comes to Stay and Violet Goes to the Country.

  Sissie studied the covers, silent.

  “And here’s your Magic Markers.”

  Sissie took the box, fretful. “I don’ know what is Magi Markers.”

  “Where’s Donny?” asked Father Tim.

  “We don’ know where ’e’s at. Donny’s drinkin’.”

  Preachers had the right, as it were, to drop by unannounced, but pressing to be invited in was another matter.

  He and Cynthia looked at each other.

  “Why don’t you ask Sammy to wait for us,” she said. “Perhaps he’d like to look for Indian pipes in the woods. And give me a few minutes with Dovey and Granny before you come in.”

  “You got t’ eat, Mama.”

  “I don’ want to, Sissie.”

  “You got to! Granny says you’ll die if y’ don’t.”

  “Nossir,” Granny argued. “I didn’ say nothin’ ‘bout dyin’. I said she cain’t live if she don’t eat.”

  Sissie put her fists on her hips. “ ’At’s th’ same as dyin’! ”

  Sissie stomped to the bed. “Looky here, Mama, I’m goin’ t’ dance f‘r you, OK? Turn y’r head an’ look over here, I’m dancin’ f‘r you in m’ yeller shoes. I’m dancin’ f’r you, Mama! Please eat!”

  “Come, Sissie.” Father Tim held his arms out to her, and she came and sat on his lap, reluctant. “Dovey, there are some things we have to do whether we want to or not. You must take some nourishment.”

  “Bring me m’ plate an’ all, then.”

  “Hit’s green beans an’ mashed taters,” said Sissie. “An’ wh
at else, Granny?”

  “A little stew beef cooked plenty done, with some tasty broth.”

  “What’s ’em red things?”

  “Beets.”

  “She don’ like beets.”

  Granny looked firm. “Beets is got arn. She needs arn if she’s goin’ t’ git out of that bed.”

  Sissie jumped off his lap and took the plate from Granny.

  “Arn, Mama, you need arn,” she said, proffering the plate.

  “Help me up, then.”

  Cynthia helped Dovey sit up, and rearranged the pillows behind her. “After you eat, I’d like to brush your hair and help you change your pajamas. Would you like that?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “We’ll send Father Tim outside. Will you drink some water?”

  “Yes, ma’am, thank you. An’ I need m’ medicine. You can put water in m’ pitcher if y’ don’t mind.”

  Cynthia went to the sink with the transferware pitcher, Sissie following with instructions.

  “You got t’ hold th’ bottom real good, th’ handle’s been broke off an’ pasted back two times. Mama’s had it since she was little, an’ all ’er pretty dishes, too. Her whole set’s got a castle on it, with cows in th’ yard an’ a river, but it’s near about all broke an’ pasted back. Mamaw Ruby give it to ’er, Mama said maybe I could have it when I’m big.”

  “I wisht you’d take this young ‘un on y’r rounds sometime,” Granny told the vicar. “She never gits out t’ hardly do nothin’, stays pent up here like a bunny in a cage.”

  “Sissie, how would you like to come with Agnes and me one day—on our rounds?”

  “What’s y’r rounds?”

  “We visit people. And talk.You like to talk.”

  “Oh, Lord help,” said Granny. “She never hushes up!”

  “Look!” said Sissie. “Mama took a bite! She’s chewin’!”

  He stepped outside with Granny where they found Rooter examining a worm crawling on his pant leg. They thumped down in plastic chairs that had seen more than a little weather.

  “Where was you at?” Granny asked Rooter.

  “You said don’t come in, so I went up th’ road an’ found ’is worm.”

  “Well, don’t set on it an’ mess up y’r britches.” Granny looked around at the small company, pleased with another chance to socialize. “We can watch th’ cars go by!”

  Though unable to find Indian pipes, Sammy staggered from the woods with a more valuable find. He thunked a large rock into the truck bed. “Hit’ll catch th’ garden gate when it swings back.”

  “Well done! Come and sit with us, buddy; we’ll be going soon.”

  Sammy pulled up a chair next to Rooter, nodding to Granny.

  “Did you‘uns know Donny’s mama shot ’is daddy?” Rooter asked the vicar. The worm traveled up his forearm.

  “We know.”

  “Kilt ‘im dead. An’ I reckon y’ know Robert kilt ’is granpaw? He was in jail a long time; Granny says longer’n I been alive.”

  “Don’ talk about that awful mess,” said Granny.

  “Did you see him do it?” Father Tim asked Rooter.

  Rooter picked the worm off his arm and studied it in his palm. “I wadn’t alive when he done it.”

  “How do you know he did it?”

  “Ol’ Fred what lives in th’ school bus said Robert done it, sure as fire. Ol’ Fred’s got voices in ’is head; he talks t’ people that ain’t even there.”

  “Have you been down to that school bus?” Granny looked fierce. “You know good ‘n’ well you ain’t s‘posed t’ go down t’ that school bus.”

  “You cain’t whip me f‘r doin’ it, ’cause you cain’t catch me.”

  “I’ll have th’ preacher here whip y’ f’r me.”

  “No ma’am, I’m not in the whipping business. Let me ask you, Rooter, did Fred say he saw it happen?”

  “He said he never seen it happen, but he was walkin’ by on th’ road an’ heerd Robert an’ ‘is granpaw fightin’, said he heered ’is granpaw holler out Robert’s name.”

  “Did Fred testify in court, Granny? Do you know?”

  “I don’t keep up with trash, hit’s hard enough keepin’ up with decent people.” Granny reached over and snatched Rooter by the hair of his head.

  “Oww!” said Rooter.

  “I’ll ow y’ worser’n this if y’ go down there ag‘in.” Granny continued to grip a handful of Rooter’s hair. “D’you hear me?”

  Rooter looked at Sammy and Father Tim, abashed.

  “Do you hear her, son?”

  “I hear ye,” he said to Granny.

  If he’d spent the morning on the mountaintop, he now found himself in the valley, both literally and figuratively. He was spent.

  He leaned back in the library wing chair across from his wife and closed his eyes.

  They should have Sammy’s little brother and sister out one weekend. He could pick them up in town, they’d relish seeing the lambs and chickens. Sammy needed the solace of blood kin. Try as he and Cynthia might, they couldn’t give him that.

  “How many eggs today?” asked his wife, yawning hugely.

  He yawned back. “Same. Fourteen.”

  “They’ll be stacking up in the fridge again, please take some on your rounds this week,” she said. “Miss Martha must have used her full dozen in that German chocolate cake. And what a cake!”

  “Don’t talk about it,” he said. He could have sworn Martha McKinney had baked a magnet into it, the way it had drawn him to the table time and again. By sheer grace alone, he’d managed to keep his distance, though he’d enjoyed a few crumbs of Lily’s, in case she asked for an opinion.

  “I don’t think Dovey’s problem is depression,” she said.

  “What do you think it is?” He’d walked through a deep vale of his own, and though he hadn’t stayed in bed, he had darn well wanted to.

  “It’s a hunch, really. I feel her problem has its taproot in the physical or physiological. Perhaps the depression comes because her ailment isn’t healing.”

  He pondered this, weary in every part. “How about a little nightcap?”

  The dogs were snoring, Sammy was on the phone having his almost-nightly talk with Dooley ...

  “That would be perfect,” she said. “Why don’t I read to us?”

  He willingly forked over the book. “This is from ‘Michael,’ a wonderful poem by Wordsworth. It reminds me of the view from Holy Trinity. Now that I’ve rediscovered the poem, I’ll always imagine sheep among the rocks. Take it from where my thumb was.”

  Violet leapt into Cynthia’s lap and settled herself, as her mistress adjusted her glasses and read:“The pastoral mountains front you, face to face,

  But, courage! For around that boisterous brook

  The mountains have all opened out themselves,

  And made a hidden valley of their own.

  No habitation can be seen; but they

  Who journey thither find themselves alone

  With a few sheep, with rocks and stones, and kites

  That overhead are sailing in the sky.

  It is in truth an utter solitude ... ”

  She looked at the fireplace where the plywood had been removed, and a ladder inserted into the chimney. She noted the soot and cinders that had fallen onto the hearth since Lily vacuumed, and considered what Lloyd and his helper said they’d be doing first thing Monday morning.Then she looked at her husband, who had fallen asleep with his glasses pushed onto his head.

  “Utter solitude, dearest!” She spoke as if he were wide awake. “Can you even imagine such a thing?”

  He didn’t know what to make of the decidedly attractive woman standing at their back door. She was wearing a blond wig or his nickname wasn’t Slick Kavanagh—not to mention cowboy boots with pointed toes and an outfit with fringe that was definitely in motion.

  “Hi! I’m Vi’let,” she said, giving him a huge smile.

  “Violet! I was expecting Lily.
”

  “Oh, shoot, Lily’s ever’body’s fav’rite.”

  All well and good, he wanted to say, except she rarely shows up. How does she get to be everybody’s favorite?

  “She said she’ll roll in at nine-thirty, on the dot. Her van had a flat tire; she had to call th’ gas station ’cause her husband’s in Hick‘ry gettin’ ‘is heads ground. Since I was comin’ this way, she asked me t’ stop an’ tell you; she don’t carry a cell phone, you know. Can you imagine not carryin’ a cell phone in t’day’s fast-paced world?”

  He could imagine it, actually.

  “I’m on m’ cell phone day an’ night, seems like. How ’bout you?”

  “I don’t have a cell phone.”

  Her blue eyes appeared suddenly larger. “I ain’t b’lievin’ that!”

  “But,” he said, grumpy, “I’m going to get a cell phone.”

  “When?”

  “In july.”

  “I’ll help you program it when I do a fill-in for Lily. Well, got to fly; I’m on th’ radio at twelve o’clock.”

  “On the radio?”

  “Singin’.” So saying, she began to sing. “ ‘Delta Dawn, what’s that flower you have on? ...”

  He heard an odd noise, something like a small trumpet played by a small person.

  “Oops, m’ cell phone, there it goes! What’d I tell you?” She clattered down the steps. “High Country Lite, ten-forty on your dial! Have a great day! Hey, this is Vi’let, who’s this ... ?”

  He noted that Lloyd and his helper stood transfixed, their mouths open.

  “I always make up any time I miss!” Lily shouted as he came into the kitchen. Their erstwhile housekeeper trundled the vacuum cleaner across the wooden floor as his wife sat at her easel and appeared ready to jump out the window.

  “Right,” he shouted back. “Glad you made it safely!”

  He noted that someone was in the fireplace, he saw work boots on the rung of the ladder that disappeared into the throat of the firebox.

  “I’m out of here, Kavanagh. Off to see Lottie Greer and Homeless Hobbes. It’s a visit way overdue. Need to pick up a couple of things for our hard-working gardener, and while I’m at it, Lloyd said he could use a trowel; his trusty blade just separated from its handle after twenty-five years. Think of that!”